


mirage

by aretia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27615062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aretia/pseuds/aretia
Summary: Aziraphale sees someone on the street who looks like an old flame of his, and it sends him into a spiral of longing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	mirage

Rain fell in tiny drops that were invisible against the gray backdrop of the sky, yet appeared on contact to soak umbrellas and Aziraphale’s jacket. It had been a hard day at the bookshop. Long lines, demanding customers, and no support from his supervisors, a typical situation that was becoming increasingly common as they neared the holiday season. Aziraphale dreamed of the day that he would have his own bookshop and not have to deal with any of it, but today hadn’t brought him any closer. As it was, he couldn’t even afford a car, not that he had ever learned how to drive one. So he walked home on the crowded sidewalk, raindrops accumulating on his cheeks.

Amidst the sea of black umbrellas, a glimpse of red caught his eye. He looked over his shoulder and did a double take. A shock of red hair, flowing in long, curly locks over the shoulders of someone dressed in a black suit.

It wasn’t possible. That was a mirage he had just seen. Aziraphale lived in London. Their fateful last meeting four years ago, when they had both agreed that timing wasn’t on their side and whatever undefined arrangement they had was nearing its expiration date, had been at Crowley’s flat in Edinburgh. He had no reason to be here, so close to his home, ready to tear what was left of his composure to shreds. He couldn’t have shown up simply to torment him, because Aziraphale had never even told him exactly where he lived. 

Maybe it wasn’t impossible. Lots of people who went to their university lived in London. Maybe he was visiting a friend. 

But he didn’t have any way to find out whether it was or wasn’t him, because the crowd had already moved on. It was a passing glimpse on the sidewalk, and nothing more. What was he going to do, turn around?

 _You’re going to turn around, because you’re fucking pathetic,_ a snide voice in his head answered him.

He was lost, he was gone, as he turned around and wove into the flow of pedestrians heading the other way. Luckily, the person with the red hair hadn’t gone much farther. They had stopped in front of a store window. There was a child with them, and a partner. If it really turned out to be him, he didn’t know if he could bear it. It couldn’t be that he had moved on so quickly when Aziraphale could be plunged into turmoil at the mere perceived sight of him.

He had to step onto the street to get around them, and finally get a view of the person’s face. It wasn’t him. Aziraphale felt both relieved and disappointed by this revelation. 

There was no spark of recognition in the stranger’s eyes. Instead, they narrowed their eyes in suspicion, as if Aziraphale was doing something unsavory by turning around to get a second look at a random person on the sidewalk… which he was, when he put it that way. If he tried to explain to them that he was just staring because they reminded him of someone he knew, he really would sound like a creep. He ducked back into the crowd and fled their vision as quickly as he could.

It had been a foolish impulse to try and find out if it was him, and now he had embarrassed himself. He should have listened to his first instinct, that it was impossible, and headed home without looking back. But if he hadn’t turned around, he would have a different kind of regret on his mind. 

_I wasn’t thinking of you. And now I can’t think of anything but you._

At least he wasn’t dwelling on his bad day at work anymore.

Four years had passed since he had spent decadent weekends in Crowley’s bed at his humble flat, with red hair tangled in his fingers and slim hands on his ample body and amber eyes looking at him like he was someone to be desired. Time hadn’t softened the ache, and still even the thought of him flung him back into that desperate longing. Four years had gone by with no contact, and that was partially intentional on Aziraphale’s part. He didn’t want to start a conversation that would end with what had been implicit becoming tangible, an acknowledgement that there was never anything between them, that it had never meant as much to Crowley as it had to him.

But then, Aziraphale’s misery was his own fault. He still clung to the foolish hope that maybe Crowley was waiting too, holding back for the same reason that Aziraphale was, and all it would take would be an honest conversation to mend things between them. However thin that thread of hope had worn over the years, it was still hope. 

His phone weighed heavily in his pocket. After several minutes of contemplation, he reached for it. Raindrops smeared across the screen as he searched his contacts for a long unused number.


End file.
